


salt on caramel

by ohhotlamb



Series: he could become my little problem [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Office, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Lingerie, M/M, Office Sex, iwa is Too Smooth, oiks is so awkward it hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:59:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7860961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhotlamb/pseuds/ohhotlamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I swear, they wanna kill me by the time I’m thirty. My stress level is too high for someone so beautiful. I’ll get <em>wrinkles.</em>”</p><p>Iwaizumi grunts around his mouthful. “’s this about the butt thing? And the pizza party?”</p><p>“Oh, great, even different departments have heard about it. Just great.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	salt on caramel

**Author's Note:**

> this is essentially the sequel to my other work, [silver tongue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7128887). it can definitely be read on its own, but i think a few things might come across a lil ???? w/o having read the first. idk theres literally no exposition so good luck lmao 
> 
> there is A Lot of porn in this (like...3,500 words worth...) but i THINK that it's avoidable if you want? like whatever scant plot this thing has would still make sense if you decided to skip. so if that's your thing, you should stop reading when iwa says "close the door", and start up again at "he's barely tucked the wad into his pocket"
> 
> this was so, so, so fun to write and this is not meant to be taken v seriously! i hope you enjoy it! <3

Oikawa Tooru has his serious-business face on, eyes narrowed coolly and mouth drawn into a tight line. They aren’t even doing him the decency of  _trying_ to take this as the major transgression it is—the both of them are ugly-snorting into each other’s shoulders. Kuroo wipes away a mirthful tear. Bokuto leaves a spot of drool on Kuroo’s shirt.  Every other employee in the conference room wears the same face of a mother sick and tired of this same shit, _over and over._

The offending image is blown up a bit too excessively onto the projector for everyone to see—by now, they have all been somewhat desensitized to it. Tooru smacks his hand once against the screen before strolling back to the front with a deceptive calm. He crosses his arms. “We are not leaving this room,” he says, enunciating clearly, “until someone ‘fesses up.”  He holds up one of the physical copies—one of the hundreds that had to be frantically gathered and ripped from all public surfaces this morning, from walls and windows and urinals. He stabs it with a finger, paper quivering sharply, and his nostrils flare. “No more fun and games. This is a serious offense and it needs to be taken as such. Now I want to know—just who could have photocopied their ass and stuck copies all over the office?”

The words spark another round of unrestrained howling, and Tooru waits for it to die down again before continuing. Kenma and Akaashi both check the time on their phones and sigh in complete synchronization. “Honestly, I know it’s one of two options. Now who’s it gonna be?”  He begins tapping his foot impatiently, eyes narrowed into a dangerous glare half fueled by irritation and half by starvation—it’s just past noon and everyone (most of all himself) just wants to get to lunch. But he needs to crack down on this for once. If he doesn’t, one of these days he’s going to show up to work to find his office overthrown, to find barricades made of rolling chairs and filing cabinets, Bokuto yowling to the ceiling and wearing nothing but his underwear and a bandana made out of Tooru’s office curtains.

Said Bokuto takes a moment reprieve from hiccupping hysterics to beam, to casually lean back in his chair and throw an ankle over his opposite knee, grin toothy and utterly delighted to be the center of attention. “My ass isn’t _nearly_ that hairy—plus, it’s all blond. From personal experience, it doesn’t show up well in black-and-white. What about you, Kuroo?”

Kuroo examines his nails, face straining with the effort not to smirk. “I get my ass waxed on the regular. You’d be hard pressed finding a smoother behind this side of the Sumida.”

Bokuto smiles. “See? We couldn’t possibly be the masterminds. If you want, I can pull my pants down here and now.”

Kuroo raises his hand. “Oh, me first! I volunteer! I’ll pull ‘em off!”

“Whoa, dude, yours or mine?”

“Oh, shit! I meant mine, but, you know, if you needed help—"

“This is totally just like a dream I had the other night, huh, right, Akaashi—"

Tooru slams his hands down on the podium. “I promise to let you off easy if you just _tell me who did it.”_

Imaginary cricket noises are racketing around the expanse of Tooru’s mind in the following silence, along with floating pictures of milk bread and the echoing timbre of Iwaizumi’s low voice crooning to him sweet nothings. He closes his eyes, teeth gritting and fingers clenching the edges of the podium, trying to summon up whatever vestiges of his patience he has left. “We are so lucky, we are _blessed_ that the Chief Executive Officer—that’s _CEO_ for you nimrods—decided to cancel the conference today. Because if my head ends up on the chopping block,” he hisses through his teeth, "you can bet I’m taking you bastards with me.”

“Aw, Bo, look at him. He reminds me of that kitten I found in the dumpster behind my apartment. Sweet little Dumpster. I wonder what happened to him.”

“Didn’t Dumpster bite you? Didn’t you have to get shots?”

“Well, yeah, but he was still real cute.”

“You know, I really didn’t want to have to do this,” Tooru says, voice level and quiet as something inside him snaps. Bokuto and Kuroo must detect something different in his voice, because the two of them finally grow quiet, looking up at Tooru with apprehension and a little bit of fear, “but until the mastermind comes forward, I am _hereby cancelling the company pizza party.”_

Gasps of outrage. Kenma drops his phone and it bounces off the office carpeting with a sad little _thunk._ Suga reaches for Daichi’s shoulders in search of comfort. Kuroo’s mouth dangles open in horror; Bokuto leaps to his feet in a blind rage, eyes wild with panic. “You can’t do that! We worked _hard_ for that pizza party! We _earned it!_ It was the only thing keeping me going through this week!”

Tooru crosses his arms stubbornly, nose turned up in the air. “Yeah, well, too bad! You have no one to blame but yourselves!”

“But—"

“You seem to forget that _I’m your boss,_ and I can do whatever I want!” He pounds his fist down for emphasis, and with that he begins his sweeping exit from the conference room, calling over his shoulder, “This meeting is adjourned! Everyone go to lunch, and if I hear any complaints about my decision then I’m cancelling the Christmas party too! Ugly Christmas sweater competition be damned!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Tooru isn’t used to being the single most hated person in the office. Usually that honor went to Danshou, who is an all-around douche and leaves half-full mugs of lukewarm coffee on every flat surface like some kind of caffeinated breadcrumb trail. But today, the clear unanimous vote is to boot Tooru off the island. He is the personified clump of gum stuck to the bottom of everyone’s shoe. He’s the paper bag filled with dog shit left to burn on their front porch. He’s effectively ostracized, like overnight there was a mass-text sent out to make sure he has the most miserable day ever. (Actually, now that he thinks about it, it’s not an impossibility.)

He gets stink-eyes and not-quite-whispered _booooo!’s_ everywhere he goes. He’s ignored by his friends in the staff room, someone drew devil horns on his portrait on the wall with Sharpie, and even his assistant Kindaichi _purposefully_ orders him a Peach Beach smoothie when he _knows_ Tooru’s favorite is Strawberry Supreme. Kindaichi claims it was an accident and he even buys Tooru a cookie the size of his face by way of apology, but by then the damage has already been done.

This day is officially Terrible. 

“You seem to be in a bad mood,” Iwaizumi remarks at lunch, taking a bite of his sandwich and raising an eyebrow at the same time.

Tooru is sulking, sucking moodily on mediocre peach fruit innards and staring at the enormous snickerdoodle sitting in front of him, contemplating like it might be poisoned. He sighs, sliding down to rest his cheek on his forearm. He sighs again. “I swear, they wanna kill me by the time I’m thirty. My stress level is too high for someone so beautiful. I’ll get _wrinkles.”_

Iwaizumi grunts around his mouthful. “’s this about the butt thing? And the pizza party?”

“Oh, great, even different departments have heard about it. Just great.”

“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. The butt thing, I mean.”

Tooru startles upright, his mouth dropping open. “ _Not a big deal?_ Iwa-chan, it was a direct challenge to my authority! They did it because they _knew_ I’d get mad and didn’t think I’d do anything about it!” He grinds his teeth together. “But I did! I sure showed them!”

“Yeah, you sure did. And now everyone hates you.”

“ _Iwa-chan,_ please, there’s this concept called delicacy—"

“You can’t stand it, can you? Having people not like you. Why?” Iwaizumi licks his lips free of crumbs, and Tooru forces himself not to stare at his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Now is not the time for ogling. He blinks. “I don’t understand the question.”

“I’m saying it’s not like you have to be everyone’s favorite person to survive.”

“But why _shouldn’t_ everyone love me? Aren’t I lovable?”

“Apparently not when you cancel pizza parties.”

_Do **you** love me?_

The question springs to mind before Tooru can forcefully stop it at the gates—it makes his heart squeeze painfully, a lemon being ground into a citrus juicer, and his face shutters before he lets it show. He stays quiet, idly swishing the contents of his smoothie cup. It’s stupid and immature, he knows, but he doesn’t want to be the first to say it—those three words. In all of his previous relationships, that’s the way it’s been, and it’s just…

It’s just that he doesn’t want to have to be the first for once, and in all honesty he doesn’t know if Iwaizumi feels the same way, and that scares him. It scares him shitless because it’s never been like this before. He’s never been so head over heels. He’s never been driven so _helplessly_ into complete and utter devotion to another person before.  Saying what he wants to—it would mean so much more than it has in the past, and coming from someone like him, well. He doesn’t want to cheapen the moment. Coming from Iwaizumi’s mouth, however…Iwaizumi means what he says, always. There would not be a smidgen of doubt that he means it.

Though it’s not like Tooru stays up at night agonizing over it. His overwhelming desire for validation only surfaces when the notion rears its ugly head, like now. That’s when he starts over-thinking, and to add on top of an already-existent heaping scoop of misery, he suddenly feels six miles deeper beneath a pile of crap than he already does.

Iwaizumi looks at him, expression oddly intense. “You’re really stressed out.”

Tooru gives him a pinched smile. “No, whatever gave you that idea?”

Another moment of a contemplative, searching look, and then Iwaizumi turns back to his sandwich with a dissatisfying “hmm.”

Tooru wrinkles his nose, chomping at his straw with his front teeth. “What’s with that suspicious ‘hmm’?”

“Mmm.”

Tooru groans, shoving his drink away across the table with finality. “That’s it. I’m going home sick. Here, finish this peach monstrosity for me. And this nasty cookie.”

Iwaizumi frowns. “I thought you liked snickerdoodle.”

“I do when it’s not potentially laced with laxatives or something equally life-threatening.”

“And so you pass off the potentially poisonous cookie to me. Thanks.”

A dazzling smile. “What are boyfriends for?”

“Hmm.”

Tooru throws his hands up in the air, shoving away from his chair and storming away towards the exit.  “I don’t know why I even try!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day brings with it very little improvement. In fact, the suckage may even have upped a few levels, because he had to stay up past his usual bedtime finishing a slideshow for that morning’s presentation, and he has dark half-moons underneath his eyes. Everyone is still ignoring him (except Suga, but Suga doesn’t count because he couldn’t ignore anyone even if his life depended on it) and he finds a smelly old sock full of raw shrimp on his office chair. It leaves a reeking, fishy odor in the room even after he throws it directly into the bin outside the building, so he’s forced to take his laptop and a giant thermos of black coffee and do his work out with Kindaichi. This sucks for a multitude of reasons, the main ones being that he has to use the miniature chair kept for when Kindaichi’s three-year-old daughter comes to work with him (as his regular chair is still being fumigated of shrimp-juices) and that Kindaichi is as unforgiving as the rest, squirming in his seat every time Tooru so much as breathes.

“This is bullying. I’m being bullied,” Tooru realizes, Kindaichi’s fingers pausing on his keyboard. “I didn’t even get bullied in high school.”

“Don’t worry, Oikawa-san. It’ll blow over soon,” Kindaichi says, not quite meeting Tooru’s eyes.

Tooru’s about to point out that Kindaichi is dirty no-good hypocrite when his phone buzzes on the desk—he has to reach awkwardly as his arms are considerably shorter when he’s sitting in a chair meant for toddlers. And even though it’s already been four months since that first fateful date, seeing Iwaizumi’s name light up his phone _still_ manages to make him feel like he’s two seconds away from whipping out a notebook and doodling their initials together in a wreath of hearts like a middle school girl.

_come to my floor during lunch. supply room #4. its quiet._

This message comes as a beacon of light on this dreary day, and he holds his phone close to his chest for a moment, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes—he just has to make it through a few more hours, just a few more hours of blatant door slamming and cold shoulders, of Kindaichi jumping when he presses the space bar a bit too forcefully, of the lingering seafood smell that clouds the air. A little bit longer and then he can collapse into Iwaizumi’s ridiculously ripped arms and forget about his worries, if only for an hour.

He’s able to throw himself back into his work, ignoring how his back aches as he hunches over his laptop. The rest of the morning goes by a little bit faster than it had before, and by the time it’s noon he’s nearly caught up on everything he’s needed to do—he has a meeting later with Tobio to discuss the shipment for next week, but that’s something he’d prefer not to think about before it’s absolutely necessary.

He leaves a few documents for Kindaichi to go over once they get back from lunch, and then he makes a quick run across the street to his favorite bakery (if no one _else_ is going to spoil him, then he might as well do it himself) to pick up something that’s bound to get his blood sugar soaring. After that it’s another few minutes in the elevator before he’s stepping onto a floor that’s nearly become as familiar as his own the past few months. The air is full with the chattering of foreign tongues, and the secretary gives him a smile and a wink as she waves him on past, speaking into her headset in a language Tooru couldn’t pinpoint even if he were asked.

It takes very little detective work to find the supply room; after finding the first of such rooms, it’s simply a matter of following the numbered doors down the various twists and turns of the hallway. The chattering becomes more distant the further in he goes, and by the time he reaches #4, it’s all but dead silent. He carefully rearranges the box of cupcakes to fit safely into the crook of his left elbow, swinging open the door and stepping inside to find a dimly lit room filled with brown cardboard boxes, a paper cutter, and a table at the far end. There’s a single, low-hanging light fixture attached to the ceiling, its lightbulb yellow and clearly on its way out. Tooru keeps his eyes on the box to keep it steady, but notes the lone figure of Iwaizumi by the table in his peripheral.

“Afternoon, Iwa-chan! I brought us some cupcakes! And by _us_ I obviously mean _myself—”_ He spares a glance over, and that’s all it takes for him to feel the shock equivalent of sticking a fork in a power outlet. He immediately gasps, slamming his eyes shut. The box of cupcakes hits the floor, his hands flailing. “Oh my god? _”_

“Close the door.”

Tooru does so immediately, spinning back around and slamming it shut robotically, his mind whirling a mile a minute. He faces the door, eyes still closed and heart hammering—he had only gotten a brief glimpse, but it had been enough—black fishnet stockings, a garter belt and fastenings, brown skin glistening and oiled beneath, a bare and similarly wet-looking chest—

“Pinch me,” Tooru whispers, half to himself.

“Yesterday was a bad day for you. And I’m guessing today hasn’t been too much better.” There’s the sound of—of _heels,_ steady and dull on carpet, heavy with the weight of a thick, muscular body. Tooru’s hands shake. _I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up—_

A warm palm smooths over the small of his back, running up between his shoulder blades to hold lightly at the base of his neck. “I felt like doing something nice for you.”

Tooru lets out a hard breath, his nape feeling overly sensitive, like each of his nerve endings are reaching out to get closer to the foreign touch. “My mom was right. I shouldn’t be eating right before I go to bed. This dream—"

“You’re not dreaming.” Hot breath replaces the hand on the back of his neck, on the shell of his ear. A voice, deep and rich, tinged with the honey of amusement. “Turn around and open your eyes, _Tooru.”_

Immediately: “No.”

Lightly scraping teeth, the barest brush of a wet tongue behind his ear. “Why not?”

He’s so flustered it’s making him painfully—embarrassingly—honest. “I might come in my pants.” Which is the truth, because he can already feel himself straining against his zipper, the sudden bloodrush making his head feel a little blurry. He could only _hope_ that seeing Iwaizumi again—seeing him _like that,_ so filthy it goes beyond what even Tooru’s imagination could cook up—wouldn’t be an immediate death sentence,  _but._

He’d really rather not take that chance.

Iwaizumi laughs, his face buried in the warm crook of Tooru’s neck, and when he speaks it’s a sensation Tooru can feel all the way down to his core. His hands have settled over Tooru’s stomach, pressing and scraping with his nails at odd, maddening intervals. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Not…not _in_ my pants. That would, uh, be preferable.”

“Then we’ll just have to take ‘em off, right?”

Tooru’s hands clench rigidly at his sides, his mouth dry and throat closing down tight on his windpipe. His voice sounds strained. “Why are you like this. How can you simultaneously be smooth and not smooth at the same time.”

Another easy laugh. “It’s easy to look smooth when you’re…ya know. You.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“You can take it however you want. But,” Tooru can hear the beginnings of a terrible, no-good grin in his voice, and he grits his teeth for whatever life-ruining thing Iwaizumi is about to say, “ _I_ wanna take it. From you.”

And with that the bottom of Tooru’s stomach drops all the way to his feet. He feels woozy, swaying a little bit, and his back is steadied against Iwaizumi’s sturdy chest. “ _You—_ " He has to stop himself, tongue choking over the words. He feels like one giant heartbeat, each of his fingers and toes pulsing with it. He thinks one would be able to see his chest _ba-dump_ ing from outer space. They had never—he’s always been _happy_ (more than happy) to be on his back, writhing underneath the rolling motion of Iwaizumi’s body; the one sobbing deliriously into a pillow at the feeling of being so completely, _perfectly_ filled. He _loves_ how aggressive and rough Iwaizumi can be, when the mood strikes right. He loves feeling covered; held down and dominated in the most intimate of ways. He loves being thrown against walls and bent over desks. Don’t get him wrong— he’s entertained the idea, of course, of switching things up. Of Iwaizumi, sitting in Tooru’s lap, eyes glazed and heavy, his thighs working to lift and lower himself rhythmically, weak sounds of pleasure rumbling in his throat. But they just never got around to it, and Tooru hadn’t cared.

Not until today.

Not until this moment, when he can vividly imagine himself ripping through the lace of Iwaizumi’s fishnets with his teeth, feral. Snapping the garter belts straps until red welts bloom across brown skin. He can see himself opening Iwaizumi up nice and slow, catching all the delicious noises with his mouth and swallowing them down.

“Shit,” he says, which pretty much summarizes how he feels about the suggestion.

Iwaizumi downright _purrs,_ and his breath gathers damply against Tooru’s skin. “I wanna take it. I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t remember my own goddamn name.”

The air is vibrating with a sourceless keening sound, and Tooru refuses to acknowledge that it’s coming so pathetically from his own mouth. Already, he sounds wrecked. Ravaged. Like he’s being broken and never wants to be fixed.

“There’s one rule though.” A very obvious hardness rubs into the space between Tooru’s thighs, and instinctively he arches, pressing back into it. Iwaizumi groans, and as a reward, he goes in for the kill—he tilts his head to speak directly into Tooru’s sensitive ear. “The tights stay _on.”_

Tooru’s hips jerk with the force of the reflexive twitch between his legs. His teeth dig painfully into his bottom lip. “ _Tights.”_

“Mmhmm.”

Tooru reaches back hesitantly, his fingertips brushing the material—string woven in diamond-shaped honeycombs, the warmth of skin easily felt through the gaps. He circles one hole with his index finger, and Iwaizumi makes a pleased sound. “Did you buy them, just for this?”

Sneaky fingers are working slowly at his belt buckle. “There’s a lot of things you still have to learn about me, Oikawa. I have a collection.”

The delightful image of ripping through them is slightly modified; it’s replaced by his hands roaming over intact delicate string, squeezing the strong thighs beneath as he works at coaxing out sound after sound, making Iwaizumi shout until he can no longer speak.

“I take it back. _You’re_ the one who wants to kill me before I hit thirty.”

“There are worse ways to go, don’t you think?” An open-mouthed kiss at the nape of his neck wrangles a groan out of him, and he finally opens his eyes only to look to the ceiling—he sends a quick prayer, to whoever might be listening— _thank you, thank you for blessing me with Iwaizumi Hajime—_

And then he turns around and tips his head down the minute amount in order for his lips to meet another’s. It’s an immediate thing, like Iwaizumi knew what he was going to do before he knew himself. Iwaizumi’s mouth is waiting for him, grinning in that way only when he knows he’s having a direct effect on shortening Tooru’s life span. Tooru reaches for his hips, fingers sliding in oil—it’s burning hot over his skin, and wickedly smooth. His fingertips find the band of the measly excuse for lingerie—something made of black lace that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. He traces down the thicker material of the garter belt straps, and he pinches one between his fingers, releasing it with a satisfying, sharp _snap._

“You’re disgusting,” he murmurs against soft lips, and there’s no way his voice could be misconstrued as anything for what it is—awestruck, and so painfully turned on he doesn’t know what to do with himself, a hairs-breadth away from being utterly non-functional.

“How do you want me?” Iwaizumi replies, biting at Tooru’s bottom lip savagely, pulling away and looking up through his charcoal lashes. The part that really gets Tooru—the part that’s really destroying him, is that _Iwaizumi isn’t even trying._ Sure, he can amp up how goddamn sexy he is with the heels and the fishnets and the body oil, but at the bottom of it all it’s just _him—_ it’s completely unintentional how he’s sending Tooru into early cardiac arrest just by looking at him, eyes dark and wanting like smoldering coals.

“On the table,” Tooru breathes, gently pushing at Iwaizumi’s hipbones. He’s careful on the stumbling walk backwards, aware that Iwaizumi doesn’t wear high heels everyday—or _maybe he does._ Because he’s walking with complete confidence in his movements, nothing unnatural about them. There’s a hint of red burning underneath the tan of his cheeks, and it darkens as he sits himself down on the table top, immediately wrapping his legs behind Tooru’s thighs, locking his heels together and reeling him in close.

He tilts his chin up, smile lazy. “The good part about having planned this ahead of time if that there are certain things we don’t have to worry about.”

Tooru blinks, taking a moment to process this, and then his jaw falls open. It takes effort to keep his tongue from lolling. He thinks he might actually be panting. “You mean…?” His eyes dart down, firstly taking in the prominent swelling at the front of Iwaizumi’s undergarments; then they dip lower, the black lace slowly thinning out across his ass until it covers almost nothing. Tooru can see the edges of a dusky change in skin tone, glistening with something clear and slick.

Iwaizumi snaps the band of his ( _oh god, it_ is, _he’s wearing a—)_ thong. “I mean hurry up and get a move on. And there’s no need to be gentle about it.”

“You’re already…uh…you know? P-prepared?” Tooru stutters, disbelieving. His fingers brush idly over the skin where Iwaizumi’s legs meet the rest of his body, twitching to plunge into something hot and tight and wet.  

“Mmm. That’s what I said,” Iwaizumi hums, his neck bared beautifully, his back arching with it—he rubs his front against Tooru, impatient little humps that has a flush bleeding down onto his chest. “I told you I wanted this. But first—" an impish grin spreads across his face, his hands reaching to pull Tooru’s belt fully out of the loops, “What was it that Bokuto said the other day? ‘Don’t be silly, wrap your willy.’?”

Tooru groans, watching as his belt snakes down to the floor in a series of metallic _clinks._ Greedy fingers attack the buttons next. “I take back anything I ever said about you being smooth, Mr. Mood-killer.”

“Oh? Have I really killed the mood?” The heels unhook from behind, and Iwaizumi spreads his thighs then, sinew pulling taught under the skin from his groin to his pelvis. He’s leaning back on his elbows, his oil-drenched abdominals clenched.

Tooru reaches to touch them, mind deadened. “Uh.”

“Any day now, Oikawa.”

He shakes his head, blinking rapidly to try and get a couple more brain cells rubbing together. “Do you have…?”

A foil square is waved in his face, and a small clear bottle is tossed onto the table. 

“…thank you.”

The next few minutes are a drumroll; a slowly climbing wave that builds and builds, gaining momentum and strength. It’s Tooru leaning over Iwaizumi’s body to nuzzle at his neck, the heel of his palm grinding lazily into the swelling of cock until lace is damp and Iwaizumi’s eyes grow hazy. It’s Tooru shoving his own pants down past his ass and gently taking himself out, careful not to over-stimulate before they’ve even really done anything. He lets Iwaizumi roll on the condom, admiring the concentrated look on his face, reaching to wipe away the sweat clinging to his hairline.

He’s ready, his whole body fit to burst, but Iwaizumi is still wearing every scrap of what little clothing he started out with. And Tooru wants _more_ —more skin, less lace, his teeth aching to rip into something. His hungry mouth finds a dark nipple, hands gentle on sweat-slick thighs. Slowly, he makes his way down; tongue licking into the creases between abdominals, and he smiles when Iwaizumi lets out a brief laugh as the tip of his tongue dips into his bellybutton. His nose skims across damp lace, grinning at the sound of a repressed gasp—he kisses, pecks interspersed with an open mouth, his breath hot and teasing, as if saying _you know very well what I can do with this mouth._

But he goes lower, and lower, his lips brushing bare, muscled ass, so close to where the skin is dark and puckered, loose and sticky with lube, hidden behind a single strip of material. Iwaizumi is struggling to keep his breathing under control as Tooru follows the scant fabric with his mouth, sneaky, quietly determining where it’s thinnest—

He digs his teeth in, Iwaizumi jerking with a groan, and Tooru pulls away until he’s released flesh and all that remains is lace—he rears his head back, biting down hard, and doesn’t let up until he hears the satisfying _rip,_ the music of dozens of strings popping and being separated from each other.

“Hey, what the _hell—"_

When he lets go, the first thing he does is look down at his prize, and his mouth damn near waters. Iwaizumi wasn’t kidding—he _is_ prepared, and twitching, and saying Tooru’s dick is interested would be an understatement.

He presses both thumbs into the edges of the pucker, gently spreading him. His chin nods at the broken bits of string. “You never said anything about keeping _that_ on.” Not that he’d ever even _consider_ ruining the perfect, leg-hugging stockings at this point, but Iwaizumi doesn’t need to know how much of a goner he really is.

Iwaizumi seems less than amused, his face strained with the conflicting emotions of annoyance and overwhelming arousal—his nose twitches when Tooru’s thumbs sink deeper. “You and your damn loopholes,” he growls. “That cost actual money, you know. Whatever. If you don’t start fucking me in the next two seconds—" He grows quiet then, and stills, when Tooru finally rubs the head of his cock against his entrance. It makes a soft, delicate sound, when wet meets wet, a gentle circling that leaves the both of them feeling boneless. A distant look appears in Iwaizumi’s eyes, his full lips parting on something delicious and silent.  

He slides his ass further off the table, pushing up to try and get himself closer, faster. “Oikawa.” The one word is a command, a request, a plea—

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru breathes, helplessly. He’s never seen Iwaizumi like this before. This—it’s a new type of desperation. Iwaizumi, unable to take what he wants the moment he wants it. Iwaizumi, pliable and waiting, lips shining and bitten. Iwaizumi, glowing with excitement, chest rising and falling rapidly with anticipation. It’s all too good. It’s all so _perfect._

It would be a shame not to enjoy this moment in all its forms.

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru says again, his fingers scratching through Iwaizumi’s dark pubic hair, dancing briefly at the base of his reddened cock before flitting away again. “I want you to bend over the table.”

“Hmm?” His eyes are near-unseeing, settling somewhere unfocused around where Tooru is still nudging his cockhead. He makes a dismayed sound ( _whimper,_ Tooru’s mind supplies him with the right word, _Iwa-chan is whimpering)_ at the sudden departure of the blunt warmth when Tooru pulls away.

“I want to fuck you from behind. Bend over the table.”

His attention is immediately captured at that—Tooru swears that he can _see_ Iwaizumi’s enormous pupils dilate even further; can see his pulse jump in his neck, fast as a jackrabbit.

Wordlessly, he sits up, sliding off the table and taking a step away before turning back around. He bends at the waist, legs spreading and ass pushed out, back curved. He props his elbows on the table. “Do it.”

His hole is fluttering pink and takes Tooru’s cock like it’s something that had been missing. _Beautifully._ The initial push is achingly slow, careful even with all the assured preparation. Iwaizumi’s thighs are trembling, and his head is bowed between his shoulders—Tooru can hear him muttering a fast string of words together like a prayer,  “shit, shit, shit, _shit, Jesus Christ—"_

In a moment of retrospection, Tooru can imagine exactly how Iwaizumi’s feeling at this moment. Full—too full, the sting bordering on painful. He can imagine how that sharpness gradually melts into a dull ache, bleeding out even more until it’s leaving something hungry in its wake. The intense heat of someone else inside of him, feeling a similar warmth all along his body, skin aglow where another's hands touch. He pictures Iwaizumi’s hands—the hands that always tend to cradle Tooru’s face right before he’s brutally fucked—

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, voice warbling, “can I—"

“Fuck, shit, do it, do it, c’mon, fuck me, _do it—"_

Tooru slams the rest of the way in, forcing the air from his own lungs as he does. Iwaizumi chokes, his nails raking uselessly down the fake wood vinyl of the tabletop, something very close to a growl rumbling in his chest. “ _Yes.”_

Fingers digging into Iwaizumi’s hips, Tooru bends, closing his eyes as his teeth meet the slick skin of a bared nape. He pulls out, maybe halfway, before shoving in again, and—

And he thinks he might lose himself a little bit at that point. His hips move without a conscious thought, his face buried somewhere in Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his arms sliding around to Iwaizumi’s stomach to press them as together as close as possible.

" _Iwa—Haji—ohhhhh.”_

It’s all so very _wet._ The oil coating Iwaizumi’s skin is soaking into Tooru’s shirt as he presses over him, and then there’s the sweat—individual drops are beading on the broad, smooth expanse of Iwaizumi’s back, little bursts of salt on caramel.

Iwaizumi lets out a strangled sort of moan. “God—you’re—deep. Shit.”

“I’m going to die,” Tooru replies, probably. He gets a breathless laugh in response.

“If you die on top of me I’m gonna kill you.” Which doesn’t even make practical sense, and Tooru’s about to point that out, but then:  “I gotta be honest here. I’m— _hahhh—_ not gonna last l-long.”

“And you think I am?” He can already feel himself coming apart at the seams, putting real effort into keeping his eyes from rolling back into his head (or blacking out completely).

“In that case, I’m not…ngh…gonna be first.” Iwaizumi’s hips swivel—he pushes them back at the same time he grinds them in a circle, clenching down, and he muffles his shout in his forearm. In turn, Tooru sees stars—Iwaizumi is making himself tighter than he already was, and he’s pressing down hot on Tooru’s cock in all directions.

“Son of a bi—Iwa-chan, please, please—"

He’s not even the one being fucked, yet somehow he’s turned out to be the one begging. _It’s because it’s Hajime, it’s_ always _because it’s Hajime—_

Iwaizumi’s panting, his breaths coming labored, his arms shaking with the effort of keeping his elbows propped up on the table. His voice is raspy and low, a rushed, babbling quality like he can’t quite string his words together as fast as he’s thinking them. “C’mon Oikawa, c’mon _Tooru, d-don’t you wanna come inside me?”_ All semblance of coherency; all semblance of a brain-to-mouth filter has taken a flying leap off the building, and Iwaizumi _keeps talking,_ Tooru creeping closer and closer, even as he tries to hold back—

Iwaizumi gasps, pushing himself back with a moan that Tooru will remember until his dying day. “C’mon, I want you to, c’mon baby—"

It’s not so much the relieving crest at the end of a large hill, but a sneaker wave that completely blindsides him, stealing the breath from his lungs and the sight from his eyes. When he comes, he’s buried deep in Iwaizumi’s body, overwhelmed by the sensation of being inside someone he holds so dear. Tooru shudders, his pelvis making a final slap against Iwaizumi’s ass, and he holds on tight as wave after wave of pleasure makes him shiver and shake, crying out and trying to smother the sound by pressing his mouth to Iwaizumi’s bare skin.

He can hear, distantly, Iwaizumi encouraging him, working him through his pleasure with a voice laced with delirium. He’s making soft, wounded noises into his arms, because Tooru is still pushing into him with thrusts governed by aftershocks. He's quivery and effectively exhausted, but there's one part of his hunger that has yet to be satisfied; his hands drift, smoothing down over Iwaizumi’s stomach, fingers ghosting over the hair leading down from his navel. His long fingers wrap loosely around Iwaizumi’s cock—his beautiful, thick, _perfect—_

Iwaizumi makes a sound like he’s dying.

“You’ve been _so good,”_ Tooru breathes, his fingers tightening infinitesimally, and to his utter surprise that’s all it takes—the moment the last syllable leaves his mouth, Iwaizumi goes rigid, his fingers curling and sucking in a breath like he hasn’t tasted air in a hundred years. Tooru can feel tacky warmth leak down over his fingers, running down his knuckles to disappear somewhere below. Iwaizumi’s strong muscles are shuddering, head bowed, and when Tooru peers over his shoulder he can see that Iwaizumi is biting viciously into his own forearm, to keep his sounds at bay.

“Fuck.”

Tooru leans down, presses kiss after kiss into Iwaizumi’s hair, down his neck and behind his ear, rubbing soothing circles with his free hand into his hip. His right hand is still curled loosely around Iwaizumi’s softening cock, cum growing cold in the open air. He has the overwhelming urge to lick it off, but his mouth is otherwise occupied with settling lazy pecks everywhere he can reach.

“You were amazing, you _are_ amazing, that was _so, so_ good...”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi croaks. He’s come back to himself somewhat, slumped bonelessly across the table. “Get the fuck off me, you weigh a ton. I can’t breathe. Goddamn.”

Tooru startles away, realizing that in his hazy, post-coital bliss he’d essentially allowed his entire dead weight to be supported by Iwaizumi's back. He laughs. “You mean you _don’t_ want me to smother you?”

“Off. Now.”

The both of them wince as Tooru pulls out, and Iwaizumi straightens his back, groaning as the vertebrae pop. Tooru takes the necessary moment to carefully take off the condom, tying the top into a knot and wrapping it in a napkin to dispose of later.

He’s barely tucked the wad into his pocket and made himself semi-modest again before a hand cups around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss—so sweet, the way that comes naturally to him, underneath all the gruffness and a tongue so sharp it could cut bone. When Iwaizumi pulls away he’s smiling, eyes sleepy and his expression so fond it’s bordering on pained. It takes Tooru’s breath away—he looks completely blissed out, so perfectly sated, his cheeks red and teeth brilliant even in the dim of the room. “I love you,” he says, easy, not a single hitch in his breathing, not a single moment of hesitation.

He says it. Just like that.

Tooru’s heart stops. He gaps, a blush flooding his cheeks so suddenly it leaves him lightheaded. For a moment he thinks its wishful thinking; that his innermost desires have started projecting themselves onto reality. But the greater part of him knows that it was _real._ That he had heard the voice, deep and pleasant; had seen the lovely red lips form around the words. “You love me?” he asks in a tiny voice, as all his insecurities come rushing to the surface. _Is he good enough? Does he actually deserve to be this happy? When will Iwaizumi realize he could do so, so much better—_

They all show, clear as day, on his face—on the wide set of his eyes and furrow between his brows, contrasting with the smile of pure relief and elation that tugs at the corners of his mouth, a reaction he couldn’t put a stop to if he tried. Because he’s loved, he’s _loved,_ Iwaizumi Hajime is _in love with him._

_Right?_

Iwaizumi pauses. Opens his mouth, breathes out, and then closes it. Similarly, his face flips through emotions one after another—surprise, confusion, realization, horror—before settling somewhere around understanding. He reaches, his calloused hands frame Tooru’s face, so tender, so gentle that his previous words almost sound believable. “You think if I didn’t love you, I’d let you see me wearing _tights and high heels?_ You think I’d let you _fuck me_ wearing tights and high heels?” He laughs, once, not sounding like he thinks it’s very funny. “Really? God, I must be a shitty boyfriend.”

“You’re not,” Tooru rushes to say, grabbing onto Iwaizumi’s wrists so he can’t pull away. “You’re not, I swear you’re not, you’re _the best—"_

“If I was the best then you wouldn’t have to ask me if I meant it. If I was the best it shouldn’t even be a _question_.” He looks disgusted with himself, lip curling. “I should have—"

Tooru leans down, kissing him soundly on the mouth. Iwaizumi returns it immediately, like a reflex, before he makes an annoyed little noise in the back of his throat when he registers the interruption.

“I love you, too,” Tooru breathes the moment he pulls back, the irritation melting from Iwaizumi’s face into surprise, then something akin to joy. “The door swings both ways, Iwa-chan. The both of us could do with a little better communication. But believe me when I tell you this,” he smiles, fingers of his clean hand running up to thread into Iwaizumi’s hair, “There is not a bone in my body that thinks you’re less than the best boyfriend in the whole world.” He punctuates this with another kiss; a quick, burning peck. “I love you. And I’m glad that you love me, too.”

Iwaizumi sighs helplessly. “As much as it pains me, I really do. Jesus, what has my life come to?”

Tooru grins, pointedly glancing down at Iwaizumi’s bare thighs, the skin red from Tooru’s hips repeatedly smacking into them. “I’d say your life couldn’t get much better. Especially now that you’re obligated to show me the rest of your collection.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Iwaizumi whispers, and Tooru loses himself again in the feeling of that biting mouth pressed against his own, not even remembering why he needed cheering in the first place.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kindaichi shoves the both of them into Tooru’s office with a firm, no-nonsense look on his face. It gives the impression of a school secretary herding the two troublemakers into the principal’s office, and, in all actuality, that’s almost exactly what it is. Give or take a few technicalities.

He crosses his arms, blocking the exit with the width of his shoulders. Bokuto looks down at his shoes like a kicked puppy. Kuroo studies the ceiling like he’s hoping he’ll find something interesting there.

“Tell him what you just told me,” Kindaichi orders, looking slightly unsure of his authority but plowing on regardless. “I’m gonna be guarding the door so you two can’t book it. Oikawa-san,” he addresses Tooru with a respectful nod, “I’ll be out here if you need me.”

And then he closes the door with an air of finality, and Tooru looks between the both of them—they haven’t spoken a single word to each other for three days, not since the day everything went to hell. Even in his state of honeymoon euphoria, he still has the capacity to feel slightly awkward, and pretty freakin' pissed. After all, his office has only just recently returned to adequate conditions, and they had interrupted a promising morning of sexting Iwaizumi questionable pictures from underneath the desk. He frowns sourly. They were just getting to the good part, too.

He surreptitiously refastens his pants as quietly as possible. “What’s going on?”

They look at each other at the same time, Bokuto’s lower lip stuck in a pout, Kuroo’s nose wrinkled like he smells something particularly bad. And it can’t be Tooru’s office, because he's pretty sure he used an entire bottle of Febreeze in here. They seem to come to a silent agreement of some sort, because Kuroo takes a deep breath, and begins to speak. “Okay, first of all, we just wanted to apologize, for…everything. But mostly the shrimp-sock. That wasn’t cool.”

Tooru stares at them. “My office smelled like rotten fish _all day.”_

Bokuto nods, eyes closed regretfully. “We know.”

“I had to sit in Mayu-chan’s chair, _all day.”_

Kuroo bites his lip, struggling to keep his solemn air. “We know.”

Bokuto takes a step forward, his kicked-puppy look now having spread to his big, doe-like eyes, making him look far too cute and pitiable for a grown man in his mid-twenties. “Look, Big T. We realize now that we shouldn’t’ve let the heat of the moment get to us. We were huge dicks to you during the meeting, and we feel real shitty about it. You’re in charge here, and even though we’re your friends and like to mess with you, we shoulda known that there’s a time and a place. So we’re sorry for that.”

Kuroo hangs his head, looking up from under Bambi eyelashes. “And we’re sorry for telling everyone to give you the cold shoulder.”

“You _what—"_

“But it’s not that they really wanted to, okay? So don’t get mad at everybody else. It’s just that we promised _we’d_ buy them pizza if they did, so. Bribery.”

“It was, like, _so_ shitty of us.”

“Super shitty,” Kuroo agrees.

Tooru lets out a breath, looking down at his desk and taking it all in. So what he's hearing is that everything bad that’s happened to him the past few days has essentially been the handiwork of two people, instead of the cumulative hatred of dozens. Maybe he’s not really as disliked as he thought—after all, pizza is a pretty huge motivator—

“And we only told you half of the truth.”

He looks up again—the both of them have gotten, if possible, even _more_ pathetic looking, squirming where they stand like they have ants in their pants.

“What do you mean?”

Bokuto looks off to the side forlornly. “The thing is—the photocopy? You know, of the butt—okay, no need for that look, you obviously know. But it’s not ours, honest. We didn’t do it.”

Kuroo clears his throat. “What we _did_ do is post it everywhere. Uh, Monday morning we found like three hundred copies in the copier tray. Have no idea whose. But the opportunity was too good to pass up—" he flinches, Bokuto’s foot having found his instep. “I mean. We made a grave mistake. It was childish and extremely unprofessional. And for that we apologize.”

Bokuto nods furiously. “So, _so_ sorry! We feel super bad about it!”

“I’ve lost precious sleep. Because of the guilt, you know.” Kuroo sniffles, pressing remorseful fingers over his eyes.

“I’ve been constipated for three days!” Bokuto adds, too loudly.

“I believe you,” Tooru says quickly, before this can escalate into something even more horrific than it already is. “I believe you, okay? It’s fine. _We’re_ fine. Thank you for telling me.” And he _is_ glad to have this cleared up—sure, two-thirds of the past seventy-two hours had been less-than-stellar, but he also came back from exile with something new etched onto his heart, leaving him light and fluttery. Having his best friends back is just the cherry on top of what’s turned out to be a delicious caramel sundae.

His phone vibrates in his lap, and he forces himself to stop thinking of whipped cream.

Bokuto perks up, his unstoppable grin back full-throttle.  “So does this mean the pizza party is un-cancelled?” He looks so hopeful, so exaggeratedly earnest. Kuroo has clasped his hands together in front of himself, eyes beseeching.

Tooru pauses to think about it. “Yes. But the two of you are going to be on clean-up duty.”

Kuroo nods, letting out a relieved breath. “That’s fair.”

Tooru looks off, lips pursed. In spite of himself, he’s grown terribly curious… “Then I guess we’ll never know who the culprit was.”

Bokuto laughs. “Well, that’s what makes life so exciting, having mysteries like this! Is Nessie real? The Hash Slinging Slasher? Whose ass did we find a bajillion photocopies of that one time? We may never know!”

None of them are truly satisfied with that answer, but they have little choice but to accept it and move on with their lives. Still, the legend remains a permanent mystery, forever a burning question at the back of their minds. 

_Just who in the world could have done it?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kindaichi looks up at the ceiling that night, the stress and dread from the past few days leaving him utterly exhausted. It’s cumulated into a permanent ball of anxiety curled hot in his stomach, leaving him antsy and unable to keep still. Beside him in bed, Kunimi is running his fingers soothingly through his hair. “Yuutarou, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“They saw,” he croaks. “I can’t believe everyone _saw.”_

Kunimi hums. “It’s not like your butt is _ugly._ It’s a cute butt.”

Kindaichi stuffs his face in his hands. “What if Mayu grows up and somehow she finds out? What if Oikawa-san figures it out? What if—"

“So we had sex on the copier and got a little distracted. It’s understandable.”

“But—"

Kunimi shushes him. “Yuutarou, Oikawa-san lifted the ban on the pizza party, didn’t he? It all worked out. There’s no need for you to keep agonizing over it.” He leans over and flicks off the bedside lamp, slinking down to settle more snuggly underneath the comforter and pressing himself to Kindaichi’s side. “Now get some sleep, Mayu has a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”

Kindaichi stares up at the ceiling in the dark, blood-shot eyes bleak and lips mouthing soundlessly.

“ _I can’t believe they saw.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I basically wrote 8,000 words of iwaoi purely so I could write more office brokuro. No shame. I am, however, shamed at how long the sex scene turned out. I wanted more practice since it really is my weak point, and it got a lil out of hand. It’s probably TOO long, but I hope it’s not too cringe-worthy and somewhat enjoyable! dont expect any more smut from me for a while, im pretty sure i used up all my knowledge lmao
> 
> And I realize that certain things that rhyme in English don’t rhyme when said in Japanese but ya know what this is my fic and I do what I want.
> 
> [tumblr dot com](http://ohhotlamb.tumblr.com/), come and talk to me! I love it! B)


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